


Archery Lessons

by ABeckoningCat



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Archery, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 11:19:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABeckoningCat/pseuds/ABeckoningCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint gives Natasha a hands-on lesson on the finer points of archery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Archery Lessons

“Try it again,” Clint said.  “Hold it firmly, here, in your left hand.”  
  
“Like this?  By the shaft?”  
  
“That’s not…” he caught himself in a laugh and cleared his throat with a small grin. “Yeah, that’s not called the shaft.”

“So what is it called?”  
  
“It’s the riser, but we’ll get into terminology later.  For right now, just grip this… and put your three middle fingers around the string here… like that, your index finger on top…and start to pull…”  Clint leaned back slightly, studying her draw before stepping in again.  “The weight’s a bit much for you, but it’ll do.”  
  
Natasha grimaced as a lancet of pain knifed through her tricep, surprised at the resistance of the bow string.  No wonder Clint’s arms were like tree trunks.  
  
“I’m going to be in pain tomorrow, aren’t I?”  
  
“Oh yeah, definitely.  Let’s try it now.”  He handed the bow off and resumed his position behind her, chest pressed into her back, feet outside her own, nose at her ear as he made cautious adjustments to her stance.  Left arm up and straight, right arm back, fingers at the corner of her mouth, muscles tight and trembling with the strain of holding back the string.  
  
“ _Svoloch_ ,” she hissed, teeth clenched, and he touched her elbow gently to relax it.  
  
“Release it slow.  OK, let’s try another one.”  
  
She turned her head enough to watch him from the corner of her eye, beneath a loose red lock.  He reached back for his quiver, nodding at her to face forward as he positioned her fingers around the nock.  
  
“Now you hold it… here, this way—”  
  
“Is this one of your fancy arrows?”  
  
“No.  And I don’t like the way you’re using the word  _fancy_.”  
  
“ _Shit_  — it just fell off.”  
  
“ _That_  would be why you’re not using a fancy one.”  
  
Rather than break form to fetch it he simply drew another, this time screwing something into the riser.  
  
“We’ll try it with a rest, see if that’s easier.  There, just like that.  Now pull back…”  
  
His nose touched the rim of her ear as he tracked her aim, making minute corrections to her posture with his fingertips, breath hot as it pulsed down the curve of her throat.  Her arms screamed in pain but she held the pose stiffly until his hands steadied at her hips.  
  
“OK,  _let go._ ”  
  
The arrow  _twanged_  with release and she felt the sliver of a breeze against her forearm as it sailed.  There was a  _thwick_  somewhere down the shooting lane, but the white foam target he’d set up for her was conspicuously devoid of arrows.  She tried not to notice the trembling tension of her teacher’s contained laughter. 

“ _Damnit._   I’m great with guns, why is this is so hard?”  She twisted at the waist to look back at him, as if begging for reassurance.  “Right?  I’m great with guns?” 

“This isn’t a gun.  But yes, you’re a regular prodigy with a couple of Glocks.  Do you want to try again?”

She looked sullenly down the shooting lane he’d set up for archery practice, the floor a litter of spent brass shells and a few sad-looking arrows.  One of them had managed to spike through the soundproofing foam sprayed on the ceiling… she wasn’t sure how, but it was something, at least. 

“ _Damnit_ ,” she said again. 

“Come on.  Once more.”  He drummed his fingers at her hips and she turned them in profile again, sighing as she brought up the bow. 

“Help me this time, what am I doing wrong?” 

“I’m left-handed, Tash, I’m already doing this backward.”  He folded her fingertips around the string, steadied her hand on the grip, and pressed his cheek against hers as if he could see through her eyes.  For a moment Tasha felt dizzy with the heat of him, the prickle of five o’clock shadow against the skin of her jaw. 

“Look at the target,” he murmured, lips tight. “What eye are you looking at it with?” 

“What? I—” she began to turn her head, but the brush of his lip against her cheek made her straighten up again. “Both of them.” 

“You’ve got it centered right now?” 

“Yes.” 

“Close your right eye.  Does it still seem to be pointed at the right spot?” 

She shut her eye and reopened it. 

“Yes.” 

“Now the left.”  He felt her startle slightly, and in turn she felt the pull of his mouth into a smile.  “It moved off target, right?  That’s the problem.  Try closing your right eye, you’re left-eye dominant.” 

Natasha did as she was told, focusing down the alley as she felt his fingers adjust the angle of her elbow, his breath soft against the skin of her neck.  Every muscle trembled, and not with strain.

Her fingers slid from the bowstring, the shaft winking out of sight as the fletching breezed past her leading arm, darting the alley’s length.  There was a soft  _thwack_  as it struck, shaft trembling just off the bullseye.  She would have leapt in delight, if such things weren’t clearly beneath a master assassin. 

But she did lower the bow, spinning to face him with a grin. 

“Hey!  Look at that!” 

“Look at that,” Clint agreed, smirking as he stood back to fold his arms.  “You’ll be putting me out of a job in no time.” 

“Oh, don’t worry,” she reached over his shoulder, surprising him as she drew another arrow free from the quiver, ready to try again.  Clint startled, catching her wrist. 

“Ah—- _careful_.  That one explodes.” 

“You’re awfully protective of your fancy arrows.” 

“Please don’t call them  _fancy_ ,” he looked pained, prying it from her fingers and stretching an arm back to replace it, fingering the Braille-like notches on the shafts until he located one that wouldn’t do permanent damage either to him or the archery range. 

“Why do you keep stroking your shaft?” 

He’d begun to nock the arrow for her, but stopped to give her a shocked, blinking look. 

“I…  _what_?  Do you keep saying these things on  _purpose?_ ” 

“When you reach for an arrow, you keep rubbing your fingers over the—” 

“— _Oh_.  Oh. No, see…”  he lowered it, picking up one hand and guiding her fingertips over the small notches carved just above the index feather of the arrow.  “Feel that?  I’ve got them marked, so I know what I’m pulling in case the rotor doesn’t work.” 

“I see,” she agreed, letting him guide the arrow back into place and position her arms, chest pressing close against her as he trained her aim down the alley.  He didn’t have to, of course, but she wasn’t about to complain. 

“Try it again,” he encouraged.  “Not trying to get fresh with you… I want to make sure you’re moving the right way when you let go.  You should be keeping your arm up here in your follow-through…  don’t bring it down.” 

“Don’t be coy, Barton,” she said solemnly.  “I know you just like to feel me release.” 

She couldn’t see him, but felt the hard quirk of his cheek as he smirked. 

“Okay, now I  _know_  you’re doing it on purpose.”


End file.
